The Hollow Men
by Lady Feylene
Summary: Harry is having dreams that leave him shaking and confused...but are they really just dreams? (Slash. Sort of. Very bizarre.)
1. Default Chapter

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Disclaimer: Even though you can't tell, I don't own anyone.

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Warning: Er...slash. Bizarre. Pairing is _very_ squickish, I'm warning you. I tel lyou right off, cause I need opinions...but it is _very, very_ disturbing.

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Author's Note: Okay...I don't know about this. It's going to be a James/Harry, if I decide to actually write it. This is just a little piece of it, and I want to know what folks think. I'm calling it 'The Hollow Men', after the poem I use through out. I think it really fits...but I need to know if it's any good.

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The Hollow Men

"Shape without form, shade without color,

Paralyzed force, gesture without motion;"

He had been having strange dreams. He wondered, sometimes, if dream was the right word. But it had to be. What else did one call visions that came while sleeping? And they were disturbing. Not disturbing in content, rather in the way he felt when he awoke. Disoriented, and haunted.

At first, he could not remember the content of the dreams. Only a vague sense that they had been. Sometimes when he woke he would be drenched in sweat, and at other times the sheets would be soiled, but always his heart would be racing and he would feel as though he hardly slept.

The dreams continued for months. They began in September, and ran on through fall and winter. It wasn't until the early mists of April fell that he began to remember.

At first it was simply clips and phrases, a word, an image, an imagined scent. He knew there was a man, a young man with black hair and blue eyes and an easy smile. And he thought he could remember a field. He didn't understand any of this, and for some reason could not bring these things to anyone. These strange dream-visions were-for some unfathomable reason-deeply personal and intimate to him. They were not to be shared. They were to be treasured and cherished, though why he did not know. But try as he might, he could glean no insight from or into them. He poured through dream dictionaries and texts on divination, searching for young men and fields, the only things he had to go by. But he found nothing.

He was near the point where he almost feared sleep, and yet he craved it. He *needed* these dreams. They had become a part of him, something he could not deny. He only wished more was clear. Who was this strange young man he felt so drawn to? He could picture him, in his waking minds eye. He was beautiful, he knew that much. Lithe and lean, with flashing eyes and careless hair and a free way. Had he created this young man, formed him from his own secret desires and longings? Or had he seen him somewhere, and he had lingered in his mind?

What caused these dreams, he did not know. There were sources, but they failed. No authorities on the subjects had been of any help. All had shaken their heads and splayed their hands in helplessness. But these were no ordinary dreams! They were visions of a sort. And they would not let him be. What had caused them? And why did they haunt him so? 

As April melted into May, more of the dreams became clear. He could remember the opening. He was standing in a large brown field, the grasses trampled flat. The night sky stretched all around, full of starts no human eye had ever glimpsed, and faintly purple. A breeze passed over him, playfully tugging at his garments, urging towards the center of the field. There was the young man. He was turned away, hands in the pockets of his faded jeans. His hair was untrimmed and messy, but artful in it's tousled fall. His shoulders were angled forward, and he seemed to be humming or whistling. 

He-the He who was dreaming-approached slowly, reverently. This young man was important. He was godlike in the mind of the dreamer. Perhaps he was some deity, personified. He was physical perfection, as far as the dreamer was concerned. And then, as he approached, the young man turned, confused, His pale brow was furroughed, and he tilted his head. But upon seeing the dreamer, he broke into a wide grin and held out his arms...

But that was all. It faded into obscurity after that. But from the state of his sheets upon waking, that the dreams progressed farther then an embrace. Were they simply his darker erotic desires making themselves known? He knew he was attracted to other men, though he was loathe to admit it aloud. His mind was all that mattered.

Still these dreams troubled him. His friends noted this, worrying over his distance and confusion. His thoughts were filled by a smiling blue eyed boy. 

"Those who have crossed  
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom  
Remember us - if at all - not as lost  
Violent souls, but only  
As the hollow men  
The stuffed men."

The dreams were becoming clearer. He could remember words. As he approached the young man, he spoke.

"I know you." He said, in a voice soft and awe filled. But how? From where? He searched the eyes and faces of his peers, and saw no young man from his dream. But the sense of familiarity lingered. "I know you."

But perhaps he of the dream knew the young man, only in the dreamtime. He knew him, because he-the young man-was a figment of his-the dreamer's-mind. Wouldn't he know his own mind? 

"I know." The young man would respond. And then there was no more, at least that was left on waking. It was frustrating, to try desperately to remember, and to have nothing. To search and struggle and curse and still have only darkness and obscurity.

The dreams continued.

"I know you."

"I know."

He knew him. And he knew him as well. How? That was the thought that plagued him. How was this? How had this come into being? Was it normal? Did this happen often? Did others suffer the same dementia? To dream of one he knew, but had never once seen? He knew no name, only the image. And the image was so hauntingly familiar...

He was close to going mad. He needed to remember. He needed to know. He turned to vials and caskets, searching for what would send him into the waking dream sleep. The liquid burnt his throat, searing it. He lay down and then he was there.

The field was familiar to him now. He walked quickly to the young man, frowning. What was this? It was the same as always, the young man turned away from him. They embraced and it was warm and right and so familiar. And then they began to speak...

~~~~~~


	2. Chapter 2

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Disclaimer: Still not mine, still no money. Lines belong to T.S. Elliot's descendants.

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Warning: Male on male intercourse herein. James/Harry. It's not graphic, but it happens. be warned!

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Dedication: For those who inspired this!

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Author's Note: I have done it! A perfectly plausible, semi-acceptable James/Harry! ::Does triumph dance:: I am proud. Sorry it's not explicit, or else it would be great MST fodder for Slash Muse and Lady Piper. I just didn't think explicit sex made sense in this situation. It would have seemed out of place, and wouldn't have flowed with the story very well.

And I did not write the fic to fit the poem. The poem just went disturbingly well.

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The Hollow Men

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"Eyes I dare not meet in dreams  
In death's dream kingdom  
These do not appear:  
There, the eyes are  
Sunlight on a broken column  
There, is a tree swinging  
And voices are  
In the wind's singing  
More distant and more solemn  
Than a fading star." 

In another time, another place, another boy was dreaming as well. Similar dreams, eerie and haunting. He dreamed he stood in a field, and a young man approached him. This young man was beautiful, but hunted in his looks. He was pale of face, with black hair, green eyes and a strange scar above his eyes. He was slight and spritely, and they embraced. And then the dream would go dark, and he would awake bathed in sweat. Sometimes there would be something else dampening his sheets. 

These dreams were personal to him, but not so personal that he kept them to himself. He had been raised differently then the young man in his dream, and was not so used to darkness. And he could not hide his emotions well. 

"James...you're doing it again."

He-whose name was revealed as being James-turned, blue eyes bloodshot and dry.

"Oh." He hung his head, the field and the young man floating behind his eyes. "I had the dream again."

"You're having it every night now."

"I know." He nodded. "There was more. We talked. I know him...I don't know how, but I know him."

The desires that the dreams expressed were disturbing. He could never tell his female lover about these dreams, for the content. He knew, because of his state after waking, that these dreams were erotic in content. 

"Maybe...maybe you saw him somewhere?" 

"No." James shook his head. "That's not it. I don't know him. I've never seen him. But I'm dreaming about..." He trailed off.

"It's not that strange."

"You like guys. You can say that."

"Maybe you do to."

"No. I like Lily."

"You can like Lily and still like other boys. I'd like Lily, if you didn't. And I like boys."

"That's different." James would not admit that perhaps he was sexually attracted to other men. He had always been secure in his sexuality, and now it was being questioned. "I...I want to know what happens. When I can't remember."

"I can have Severus make you something..."

"Will it be safe?"

"I won't say it's for you. I'll say it's for me."

"Fine." James nodded. He needed to know what happened when the dreams went black. The dreams had started in September, and went on until May. And they had never slackened. He would awake, mouth dry and body aching. What did he do, in these night visions? He would feel as though he had exerted great physical effort, and yet he never left his bed. Teh sheets were soiled, but in order. He had not thrashed about, nor tossed or turned. And yet he ached!

He did not want to sleep. He didn't like these dreams, and yet he did. They were ingrained, inside of him. They were part of him. And yet they felt wrong. There was something disjointed about them, something off kilter. He needed to know. And perhaps a potion would help. He waited on his bed, head in his hands. 

"Here."

he looked up, and saw the vial being thrust forward.

"Is it safe?" he knew where it had come from, and didn't trust it.

"I claimed it was for me."

"All right. He wouldn't poison you."

James tipped back the liquid, hating the way it burnt his throat. It seared, scalding him. He made a face, and lay back. He was asleep immediately. He was in the field, facing a large depression in the ground. The grass blew gently in the breeze, and it tugged at his clothing. he could feel the young man behind him. he turned, and immediately he was infused with warmth and love for this timid boy. he held out his arms, wanting nothing more then to embrace him.

"I know you." He said, pulling him close.

"I know." The boy responded.

"I've seen you here before." James looked down into a pair of brilliant green eyes that he knew he had seen in his waking hours.

"Every night." the boy said.

"I think I love you." James could feel it, down inside of his soul. He *loved* this boy, loved him with a fierceness he didn't understand.

"You do." The boy nodded. "I love you too."

"Then this is all right." James decided. He tilted his head to capture the boy's lips in a tender kiss, feeling the other mouth part and shift beneath his own. They were in love, and there was nothing wrong with expressing that love. He held the boy close, kissing him tenderly, stroking his back, easing him down onto the ground. They made love, tenderly and gently, in the grass. And they lay together, tangled in a contented heap.

"These are the strangest dreams I've ever had." James said, wishing for a cigarette. As soon as he had wished, he felt the familiar weight against his thigh.

"They're not your dreams." The boy said.

"Oh." James shrugged. He wasn't going to question his dream. If his dream vision decided to tell him that no, these weren't his dreams, he would agree. "I suppose I'm really a porpoise then. Dreaming I'm a whelk..."

"Now you're just not making any sense." The boy said.

"Never mind." James shook his head, lighting up a cigarette. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the flavor of it and the way it was smooth in his throat.

"All right then." The boy tucked his head against James' shoulder, and in the dream they slept...

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"Let me be no nearer  
In death's dream kingdom  
Let me also wear  
Such deliberate disguises  
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves  
In a field  
Behaving as the wind behaves  
No nearer." 

"Well?"

James sat up, rubbing his head. He was spent, and he felt the same as always. But now he remembered.

"It's strange..." And he went on to describe the dream. About the strange, beautiful boy and the conversation they had had. About the field, and the way it all felt. The realness of it.

"That is strange." 

"I don't know what to make of it." James sighed, cracking his neck. 

"You hardly moved. Only when you..." A vague hand motion was all that was needed to let James know.

"Yeah." He didn't understand. he only knew he had felt better for telling the dreams. But there, in that place, that time, he could have no idea the repercussions his telling of the dreams would have in the future. He had confessed in only one other person, but it was that person who would still be there, in the future, and who would always remember James' strange dreams. And would be the sympathetic ear that listened to the other young man's similar, strange dreams...

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	3. Chapter 3

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Disclaimer: Still not mine, still very weird.

Warning: Still hints of incest slash. 

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Dedication: This is for Allison, for claiming I'm 'great' because I carry a picture of Alan Rickman around in my wallet.

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Author's Note: Wow! A new chapter! ;-) I'm getting back in the swing of things folks. Here's a new chapter to what is actually one of my favorite stories. It was just a weird little experiment in writing, but I'm highly enjoying it. I hope you are too. :-)

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The Hollow Men

Chapter Three

"Not that final meeting

In the twilight kingdom"

The boy-he of the green eyes and haunted look- could take it no longer. He needed to speak to someone, needed some sense of clarity. Private as these dream visions were, he knew there was at least one person with whom he could share them, one whom he was rather certain would not simply laugh or turn him away. 

"Professor?"

The title was courtesy, not reality. The man who sat in the library, tawny head bowed over an ancient tome had not been professor for two years now, but old habits died hard.

"Harry." Joy at the name on his lips, joy upon seeing the green eyed boy standing before him.

"I need to speak with you." Reluctance. He still feared to speak of these strange dream-visions. They were strange and foreign to him, despite their needed familiarity.

"Of course." Old book put aside, all things put aside in favor of this green eyed boy, the one who was so haunted and pale. 

"I've...been having weird dreams." the words sounded like such nothings. So silly, needless and unworthy of utterance. He bowed his head, wishing he had no come. What was he thinking, hoping that knowledge or solace would be found here. He chanced looking up to meeting concerned and amused golden eyes, tiny fine lines crinkling about them, looking foreign in the tanned and youthful face.

"It must run in the family." An indulgent smile. "Your father used to have strange dreams as well."

"Really?" His father. A vague thought. He knew he had had a father, once. Before the dark lord came, before the world ended for him. And a mother as well, but it was his father he had found himself thinking on lately. He had only one or two pictures, taken before his death. They told him nothing, showed him little. What sort of man had he been? What had he sounded like?

"Yes. He told me about them, he didn't quite understand them." That smile. So polite. It hid so much. Harry-for that had been revealed as the boy's name-wondered what would happen if this kind and tired man ever stopped smiling?

"See...these dream's were really weird." Harry continued, words sticking in his throat. It would be good, to talk of these things.

"As were your fathers." A nod. "He couldn't remember them that well, that's why he talked to me about them."

A fleeting sense of something, crossing the plane of his mind. It was gone in a flash, leaving nothing but searing wonderment, searching for the answer that had escaped.

"I...couldn't remember mine either. Until I took a potion..."

"Yes." Another affirmative nod. "I wonder if some trace of the sight is in your family...your father's dreams were always the same. It was almost as if...I sometimes wondered if he wasn't dreaming. If he had somehow stumbled into the dreamrealm, accidentally. He was not alone in his dreams. They were the damndest things..."

"Really."

Pale. Frightened. That fleeting white sense was blazing across his mind again, dropping thought children and apprehensions. "Tell me about them." He needed to know.

"I'll tell you what I remember. They were...er...erotic in nature, these dreams. And I think they disturbed your father very much. But that's really all I know. He took a potion, to remember them, and he was...odd, after he awoke."

"Really." Dry-mouthed assumption. Heart quickening. There could be little doubt. He was having his father's dreams, somehow. But where they really dreams?

"Yes." Another nod. It was as though something was not being said. "Would you like to talk about your dreams, Harry?"

"Maybe." Harry-green eyed one-nodded slowly, cautiously. Now he was afraid. Confused. His heart was a bird, his chest a cage against which it fluttered. "You said something about a dreamrealm? What's that...?"

"It's sort of...well, another realm of existence. I'm sure you've heard of astral projection? It's akin to that. No one really knows exactly what it is, it's never been studied in depth. Our thoughts have a powerful effect there, I know that much. And it's a way of communication that has no boundaries. Time, space, dimensions..." A sudden light, slowly dawning. The end of the sentence is left trailing. A thought has begun, and Harry can tell. He fears the worst.

"But it isn't as though you an get there by accident or anything."

"Not entirely true." Muted sunlight dances through dark golden and silver hair as he shakes his head. "Most only find it through accident. Many witches and wizards have experimented with various potions and incantations to send themselves there, but only a select few manage it. Do you think...?"

"How real is the stuff that happens there?" A bitter taste of tang and bile in the back of his throat. It was...a non-place. Existing only in the mind, in the thoughts, perhaps in the soul, but not in the flesh!

"I don't know Harry." Hands splayed in silent apology. It was a pale offering, and needless. So what if he had indulged in debauchery with his own father? He who made him, gave him flesh...it had not happened in the world of the living, the waking. James was dead, long dead and buried. He had no flesh to mar, no innocence to tarnish. And what proof had he of this dreamworld? They were dreams, nothing more. His sleeping psyche, putting forth tendrils of desperation. His subconscious longed for what it had never had, a fathers love, and those tricky and troublesome synapses simply confused it, mingled it with adolescent longing. "I'm afraid I can't help you."

"Can I...can I control, what I do there?"

"If all I've read is true, then yes."

"Okay then." That was all he need do, then. He would stop this, one way or another. Though part of his mind still denied outright that any of this was plausible. It was a trick of his mind, that deceitful inner being. He would sleep again, and he would take the potion, and he would force the course of events to his liking...

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"This is the dead land

This is the cactus land

Here the stone images

Are raised, here they receive

The supplication of a dead man's hand

Under the twinkle of a fading star."


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Still weird incestual slash. Still not mine.

  
  


Dedication: To Phoenix, the most avid fan of this series! Luv ya, hun! :-)

  
  


Author's Note: This is *not* the last chapter, even if it sounds like it is. There will be at least one more, I promise! Enjoy.

  
  
  
  


//Is it like this//  
//In death's other kingdom//  
//Waking alone//  
//At the hour when we are//  
//Trembling with tenderness//  
//Lips that would kiss//  
//Form prayers to broken stone.//

  
  
  
  
  
  


"We can't be here."

  
  


"Why?" The green eyed boy was back. He looked more haunted, more hunted then ever before. He stood on uncertain feet, unearthly in the strange light of this Other place.

  
  


"It...it isn't right."

  
  


"Why not?" It was hardly a reason, more of an excuse. James refused to listen.

  
  


"Because it isn't."

  
  


"That's stupid." He loved this boy, he wasn't certain why, but he did. There was nothing but a pure, golden glow when he thought of this angelic boy. He could see nothing wrong in his heart, in his soul. 

  
  


"No, it's not." The green eyed boy was shaking his head, backing away as though frightened. 

  
  


"But...I love you..."

  
  


"And not why you think!" Passion, frightened passion filled his voice. His steps took him further and further away. James would not have that. He advanced, a hunter stalking prey, but no such malice as would accompany dark intents. 

  
  


"Then why?" He was, suddenly, standing before he boy. He took hin in his arms, lips meeting of their own accord, sunlight passing between them. James would hear no arguments, there was no wrongness here.

  
  


"Because!!"

  
  


But the boy threw him off, green eyes flashing in a storm of rage and anger. His feet carried him back, and where dull earth had been between them, a chasm opened. Gaping, wide and unable to be breached. 

  
  


"Don't do this..." James pleaded, words ripped from his throat in pain. He could not lose this beautiful green eyed boy, he would die should he lose him. 

  
  


"I have to...I don't want to, but I have to...you have to understand. This isn't right. I...I can't tell you why, okay?"

  
  


"Why not?" Confused, betrayed, hurt. In this place, all things were possible. There was no such thing as right or wrong, this wasn't real. Not int the sense of the tangible. What happened here would have to effect on the future of the waking world, of the true world. It was something removed.

  
  


"Because you don't understand...it hasn't happened for you yet..."

  
  


"What do you mean?" 

  
  


"I mean...it's hard to explain. Look, just go!" The boy waved his arms, and James could see the silvery path of tears on his cheeks. Why was he causing them such pain? This forced parting was hurting him as well, so why continue? 

  
  


"This isn't real!" James called, willing a bridge over that expanse of emptiness. "This is okay...we can be together here...."

  
  


"We can't be together anywhere!"

  
  


A bridge, wavering and tricky, stretched from ledge to ledge. James took it in leaps and bounds, and the boy fled. But there was no where to go. The edges of the dreamworld wavered and shifted, a silent unseen barirer. James overtook him, pulling him close.

  
  


"But I love you here..."

  
  


"I know."

  
  


Such pain, such heart wrenching as shook James to his inner fears and feelings. What was so wrong? He didn't understand. 

  
  


"I know you love me. And..I love you. And that's why we can't be here anymore. You...you have somebody else. And I...I just can't..."

  
  


"But this is different." 

  
  


"I know, I know. For you. Not for me..." The boy shook his head, face pained and tight. "Please. Don't make this so hard for me! All I ver wanted was you, and now I have you, but it's all wrong!"

  
  


"Who says it's wrong?"

  
  


"That's not the point! There's more going on here then you understand. Because it's not your time that matters, it's mine. So just...wake up, or whatever, and never come back here again."

  
  


"But why not?"

  
  


"Because...because I don't ever want to see you again."

  
  


Each word was as a bullet, tiny and deadly in James' heart and soul. What of love? What of eternity? How could he never want to see him again? 

  
  


"I...I don't understand."

  
  


"I know. And you never will, and I'm so sorry. I wish..I wish I could tell you everything, but I can't. At all. I can't tell you anything, cause it would screw so much up. Just...goodbye."

  
  


The boy kissed him, once, softly and chastely, and then he was gone, dissolving as mist under the uncaring rays of the sun. James was left feeling empty, and alone. Why had the boy left? James didn't even know his name. And the words he had spoken, they made no sense. Not now, and sadly not ever. With a heavy heart, James felt himself pulled back to the waking world, the real world. The dead world.

  
  


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